


are you in a sentimental mood?

by aphrodite_mine



Category: Topsy-Turvy (1999)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Bechdel Test Pass, Community: rarewomen, F/F, Stanton has two mommies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-07
Updated: 2012-05-07
Packaged: 2017-11-05 00:05:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,008
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/399710
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aphrodite_mine/pseuds/aphrodite_mine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"A boy should have his mother," Jessie says, whispering now across the pillow. </p><p>Leonora fits just so against Jessie, her chin at Jessie's shoulder, lips against her breast. "And what harm, surely, is a second?"</p>
            </blockquote>





	are you in a sentimental mood?

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pauraque](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pauraque/gifts).



Stanton marks the arrival of Sunday's dawn with a sharp cry. He squirms and squirms but an insistent beam of light refuses to leave him be. "Mama," he calls out, for his foot has now started to itch, and the water seems to pour out of his eyes as he squints them against the sun. Ages and ages pass, and he grows tired of squalling. Even so, he whimpers with every test of vision, finding the sun still high and blinding. 

Then, finally, she comes, uneven steps across the room and firm hands around his middle. It is easy to quiet, then, held against her, the threat of the sun a mere distant memory. His chin easily finds the hollow at her shoulder and neck, burrowing, his hands making fists in her hair. "It's early," she whispers, but her voice feels safe and so he clings on.

She isn't his mother, he realizes. Her hands are softer, her breast smaller, her voice sweeter. Yet, he knows her, and she has scooped him from the dreaded sunlight. He is content.

*

Jessie drops to the edge of the bed (too small, too hard) with a sigh. "I do wish you would be bothered to rouse yourself when your little one requires your attention." She's simply moved the bassinet a metre or two to the left, re-tucked little Stanton in place to minimal protestation, and returned to bed. Hardly a difficult action to perform, for one as able-bodied as Leonora.

A hand snakes its way up Jessie's spine and Leonora's smoky voice fills the space between them. "You're so effortlessly good with him. I fear I should hardly compensate."

Finding herself rolling her eyes, but smiling despite herself, Jessie gives in (as she knows she always will) and lifts the covers to slide in. Leo groans and shifts, making room. Her face is calm, lashes dark against her cheeks. 

"A boy should have his mother," Jessie says, whispering now across the pillow. She'd like to rub at her ankle, but finds herself resisting the movement, finding a kind of peace and comfort just lying here, Leonora's scent all around her, the blankets heavy with it.

"And so he has," Leonora answers, curling her lip and returning to the small hollow carved out from so many nights of her body upon the mattress. She fits just so against Jessie, her chin at Jessie's shoulder, lips against her breast. "And what harm, surely, is a second?"

Jessie laughs, the sound sharp and loud against the quiet morning. "As if I see him with enough frequency to qualify."

"Are you complaining?" Leo asks, hardly moving, her voice distant. Her arm settling heavy across Jessie's stomach. 

An arc of sunlight hits the foot of the bed, bright and pure and clear. Jessie wiggles her big toes. "I'm not sure."

*

No one blinks an eye out of place when they arrive at the Savoy together, Leonora taking small strides to compensate for Jessie's stilted ones. "Bad this morning, is it?" Leo hisses, tucking again at a wayward-moving pin in her hair. 

"No worse than any other." Jessie leans heavy on her cane, anticipating the long day ahead. A few agonizing hours, but the audience will be none the wiser. 

Leonora slows, narrowing her eyes and quirking her lip. "I didn't wear you out, then?"

Jessie smiles. "No more than any other."

*

Sybil greets them each in turn, a flurry of skirts and smiles. Jessie grins back, two hands on her cane, while Leonora shifts her weight. She's wishing, Jessie knows, for the cool glass at her fingertips, for the fire at her throat. Jessie's hand finds Leo's for the quickest of touches. Only a moment longer, it says, and before Jessie slips back to her cane, Leo squeezes. Thank you, it says, for the reminder.

"A brief meeting," comes a voice down the hall, and they shuffle towards the seats, thick with protestation. Leonora catches Jessie's elbow and Jessie turns, finding there on Leonora's face for the briefest moment, fear.

*

Three glasses in, and Leonora is softer. She feels her skin settle, become a home. And still, Jessie is here, her steady hands tugging at corset strings and smoothing the fabric of her obi. The silly thing makes it near-impossible to slouch, so Leonora stands, stiff, and drifting like a flag in a breeze.

"Hold still, won't you, Leo?" Jessie asks, her breath warm against Leonora's neck, the tiny hairs there pricking up, recognizing Jessie's voice. She presses her lips there, between Leonora's shoulder blades, hard and lightning-quick.

"Not with you here to right me," Leonora says, feeling her cheeks heat up with drink and with Jessie.

"If I have to let you fall, I will. For your own good."

"You won't," Leonora insists, leaning back, still, into Jessie's hands.

*

He watches her eyes, her eyes. Nothing but those dark circles in a peach-white sea. They disappear for a moment and he reaches out, kicks, but can't seem to pull them any closer. "Mama," he says, and the eyes pop back open, changing shape and crinkling at the corners. 

Then her hand comes, warm on his belly, and she says "There you are, my jewel."

Another hand comes, gentle and cool across the crown of his head, and Stanton wiggles, pleased with the contrasting touch and the gurgle that spits from his mouth. Another hand, and another set of dark eyes, bright hair mixing with the dark hair of his mother. 

"He knows you, see?" says the first, her hand slipping from his tummy. He wants it back, but doesn't fuss. She's pressed against the other, mouth on mouth, and the bed shifts underneath him. Stanton's eyes drift shut, the sounds change to water and the chugging beat of his own blood. He's utterly safe. She'll be there when his eyes open again, and he'll press his palm against her lips to feel where the words rush past. He'll rub his nose against her skin and smell himself no matter who's arms he finds himself in.


End file.
